Right by Her Side

“I’m very good at my job, you know,” Rebecca said.

A non sequitur? Something about the way she said the words made it clear it was not. He tilted his head. “Okay. So you’re good at your job…?”

Her gaze on the baby’s face, she rocked him side-to-side as he snuggled against her shoulder. “There’s a need for people who can do what I do.”

“I’m certain you’re right, but—”

“It takes a lot out of me.” Her gaze came up to meet his, and it was both direct and vulnerable. “Sick children, all day, every day.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Sick children, hurt children, suffering children. Dying children, Trent.”

His eyes jumped to Vince, now sound asleep against Rebecca’s flamingo smock. He couldn’t ask what was wrong with the baby. He didn’t want to know.

He couldn’t imagine how Rebecca could come to work every day.

“Why?” he asked.

She seemed to understand his question. “Because I can help many, many of them get well. Because I can comfort all of them. Because…because I can.”

For a second he felt ashamed that all he did was run a multimillion-dollar company. Then he cleared his throat. “But another child, Rebecca?”

Her gaze dropped from his. She lifted Vince’s tiny hand and set it on top of hers, then stroked the baby’s soft skin with her forefinger. “I need my own child, my own family to fill my well, Trent. To be my light, to be the strength I need to do a job that can tear me up inside. I need my own child to come home to, someone to repair the heart that gets broken a little bit every day. I need someone of my own to love.”

He tried to tell himself she’d made the speech with calculation, for maximum effect. With the sound of violins playing in her imagination.

“That brings us to my offer, I suppose,” he finally said.

“Your offer.” She blinked at him a couple of times, her face paling. “I thought…I was so tired, I thought I dreamed it. I couldn’t believe—”

“That I’d make such a proposition?” Trent heard the flat tone in his voice. “But I did. Half a million for the baby you’re carrying. And after what you just said, I’m ready to up the ante to a full seven figures.”

Three

R ebecca stared at the man across from her. He didn’t look like a nightmare—no, he looked like a dream—but she should be screaming all the same. “You’d give me a million dollars for my baby?”

“Our baby. And yes, I would give you a million, but you wouldn’t accept it, would you?”

In relief, her heart tripped up, tangling her tongue, too. “I— You…” She sagged against the back of the chair, swallowed.

One of the kids at the other end of the room let out a screech, drawing Trent’s attention. When he turned back to her, he said, “We need to schedule another talk. More private.”

“All right.” She croaked out the words, her voice still rough from surprise.

“I have something this evening I can’t get out of.” He rose, towering over her. “But how about tomorrow night?”

She rose, too, with Vince cradled against her in one arm. “Okay.” Her mind was catching up to events. Trent had come here perfectly serious about wanting to buy her baby! But he was leaving now, and seemingly convinced that he couldn’t, that she wouldn’t agree. But did that mean he was going to relinquish his rights? That was what she wanted. That’s what she needed him to agree upon.

Her free hand crept over her belly. What should I do, Eisenhower?

As she walked Trent toward the playroom’s exit, her gaze landed on the poster taped to both sides of the glass door. “The fair,” she said aloud.

“What?” He paused and looked at her.

If he saw her with kids again, if he got to know her a little better, he would see she’d make a good mother and that she didn’t need or want anything from him. He continued to look down at her, waiting.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she said. “If you don’t have something else going on, would you…like to come help me out at the children’s fair? I’m sort of half in charge and we could use an extra set of hands.”

“A children’s fair?” He said the words as if he’d never heard of such a thing.

Probably because the big, bad businessman usually concerned himself with big, bad business and not something as mundane as hot dogs and pony rides. She smiled at him, anyway. “You said you were good with babies.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Then he turned and strode for the door.

“Ten o’clock!” she called out after him. “I hope to see you there!”

By the time 9:45 a.m. rolled around, Rebecca realized she’d organized herself right out of anything major to do. Weeks ago she’d canvassed the hospital staff for volunteers and they’d stepped up without arm-twisting. The proceeds were going to benefit Camp I Can, a summer camp dear to the heart of Meredith Malone Weber, a pediatrics physical therapist. Thanks to that good cause, artistic nursing assistants were in place to paint little faces. Interns were using their rotating breaks to grill hot dogs or hand out sunscreen samples. Other volunteers were lined up to do everything from selling tickets to supervising the line for the ponies.

The flagged-off area for the fair was already starting to fill even before the official opening. Rebecca waved at a few faces she recognized, then went back to the last-minute run-through of her list. With the excited chatter and squeals of children rising around her, the hand that touched her shoulder came out of the blue at the same time that a male voice spoke in her ear. “Reporting for duty, Nurse Holley.”

Trent. It was Trent. Her face heated despite herself as she glanced up and took in his damp, dark golden hair, white T-shirt and worn jeans. He wore running shoes, the expensive kind that she always thought should do the running on their own at that price tag.

“Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?” His hand slid from her shoulder and he held both arms out.

She shook her head, thinking, I was right about those good-looking genes, Eisenhower. “No, you’re perfect.” Her face burned. “I mean, what you’re wearing is perfect.”

“You look nice, too.”

Right. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her jeans, tennies and man-size Property of Portland General T-shirt was probably as unfamiliar to him as woman’s wear as the scrubs he’d seen her in before. But she wasn’t hoping to impress him as a female. Today was about showing him her maternal, responsible side.

A toddler bumped into her knees and she automatically reached down to steady the child. See? Today was about moments like this, when she could prove to him she was the right person to retain sole custody of the baby he’d unwittingly half created.

“So, what can I do?” he asked.

She ran her finger down the list on her clipboard, then grimaced. Before finalizing the assignments, maybe she should have considered what kind of job Trent Crosby, CEO, would find appropriate. “How do you feel about cotton candy?” It was the single booth not yet manned.

“The sweet, sticky stuff?”

Grimacing again, she nodded. “Sorry, but it’s the only job left.”

He chucked her under the chin, then leaned close, as if preparing to share a deep, dark secret. “Don’t apologize.” His warm breath tickled the side of her neck. “There’s nothing I like better than sweet and sticky.”

Rebecca’s muscles froze solid as his words, his teasing tone, the closeness of him sent a wave of contrasting heat over her skin. Beneath her T-shirt, her nipples contracted into hard points, pressing against the cups of her bra. Drawing in a breath, she sucked in that delicious, spicy scent that she’d smelled on Trent’s skin the night he’d half carried her to bed.

She inhaled it again, and something deep inside her, something long-dormant, stirred.

Desire, she realized. It stretched, warming up and loosening her insides.

“You okay?”

No. She hadn’t wanted a man since discovering the $988.72 Victoria’s Secret charge on her husband’s credit card. She hadn’t thought about her body in sexual terms since deciding upon becoming a mother.

“I’m fine.” She would be. Some new pregnancy hormone had probably kicked in and was coursing through her bloodstream, causing this odd heaviness in her breasts and belly. It wasn’t Trent who was responsible for the sudden tautness of her skin and her enhanced sense of smell.

“Let’s go, then.” He looked down at her, his eyebrows raised. Maybe puzzled by her strange behavior, but certainly not under the sexual spell that had paralyzed her.

“Yes, let’s go.” She forced herself to move. In a few minutes her hormone levels would rebalance and she would see him as the rich, unreachable guy he was. She wouldn’t smell him, be aware of him, want to touch him and have him touch her with such a painful ache.

Today was supposed to be about showing him she was responsible and maternal, not needy and sexual.

The cotton-candy machine was set up at the end of the aisle of food booths. The outfit they’d rented it from had provided the cartons of pink floss sugar to fill the machine as well as the paper cones to wind the candy threads around. It had looked easy during the demonstration.

“Once the machine’s warmed up and spinning,” she explained to Trent, as she started following her own instructions, “you just twirl the cone as you move it around the edge, picking up the cotton as you go along.”

But despite the simple instructions, her effort wasn’t going well. What was supposed to be a full, puffy ball of cotton candy was wispy and drooping. More of the floss coated her fingers than covered the cone. Frustrated, she stopped and studied the result. “It looks terrible.”

“You better let me taste it,” Trent said.

“Huh?” Frowning, she held it up for his inspection. “I don’t know what’s—”

His hand wrapped around her wrist.

At the contact, her arm jerked.

His mouth, which had been leaning in for that taste, sampled the sticky back of her hand instead. Warm and wet, his tongue swiped across her skin.

That new hormone flooded her again. Her gaze flew to his, and her eyes widened as her skin prickled and her nipples tingled, then tightened, in one unstoppable, sexual rush. Could he tell?

Oh yeah, he could. His nostrils flared, as if scenting the desire oozing out of her pores.

Her voice came out a broken whisper. “I don’t…I don’t know…”

“You don’t know what?” His voice was lower, raspier.

“I don’t know what to say.” But she had to say something, right? “I’m, uh, sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” Trent’s eyes flicked to her mouth, and then back up. “I told you I like it sweet and sticky.”

His one hand still holding on to her wrist, he lifted the other to pinch a bit of candy off the cone and held it toward her lips. “See what you think.” He sounded like seduction, his voice liquid and coaxing.

Which made her feel liquid, sweet and sticky, and she was afraid she wasn’t hiding it very well. It wasn’t a maternal, responsible response. It wasn’t a smart thing for him to see. It wasn’t safe or smart for her to let him, of all people, make her feel that way.

“Come on, don’t be afraid. Open up that pretty mouth and taste.”

Oh, he sounded like seduction, all right. Her mouth was halfway open, her tongue halfway out.

A child’s voice pierced the heated air around them. “Mama! Mama! Cotton candy! Please! Buy me cotton candy.”

Rebecca lurched back. Trent’s fingers released her and she spun toward the child and parent. “Can I help you?” she asked, trying to sound normal.

She must have looked normal, because the mother handed over the two tickets required instead of running in the other direction to protect her son from the X-rated thoughts rattling around in Rebecca’s brain. The little boy bobbed up and down on his heels while Trent started on the candy. His first effort came out perfectly, wouldn’t you know? But she didn’t have a chance to commend him on it because by the time he handed it over, they had a five-deep line.

It stayed five-deep for the next couple of hours, so she didn’t have time to think, let alone worry over her uncontrollable response to Trent. At his insistence, she took one quick break from the booth to eat a hot dog and drink a bottle of water—she brought the same back to him—and then, as quickly as the line had formed, it evaporated. The fair was nearly over and, from the looks of things, had been an unqualified success.

However, the dearth of customers meant Rebecca had to face Trent without anything but the cotton-candy machine between them. She had to face up to those brief, but charged moments of sexual awareness. In their booth’s new silence, the whirring noise of the mechanism sounded loud, but not as loud as her beating heart. He switched off the machine, but, unwilling to meet his eyes, she kept her head down and pretended an interest in the coffee can of tickets she’d collected.

What’s he going to think about me now, Eisenhower? What kind of responsible mom goes wild with desire over a man she barely knows? Maybe he wouldn’t bring it up. And even if he did, maybe she could pretend he’d mistaken what had happened.

Yeah, right. And then he’d happen to brush against her once more and she’d melt into a puddle at his feet.

What kind of impression would that make?

“Rebecca.”

Trent’s voice, close by, startled her. Worried that he might touch her again, she stumbled back, knocking into the cotton-candy machine. To save herself, she reached behind, her steadying hands plunging into the remnants of gooey candy floss.

Still unbalanced, she staggered backward some more, her foot knocking over an open carton of cotton-candy mix that was still half full. As she whirled to grab the container, the powder spilled all over her tennies.

“Oh, no!” She groaned and, looking down at the mess, ran her hands over her hair—where they stuck like gum.

With another groan, she yanked them free. Aware of her appearance, and that as impressions went, she’d left an indelible one of incredible awkwardness, she raised her gaze to meet Trent’s. “I can’t believe this.”

His lips twitched. “Maybe it’s my fault. But when I said I liked sticky and sweet, I didn’t mean—”

“Ooooh!”

“Don’t stamp your foot when you’re standing in all that powder, because then you’ll have more than a mustard stain on your shirt.”

Her gaze dropped. Sure enough, there was a big ol’ swathe of bright yellow across the front of her T-shirt. A nice contrast to the pink cast to her sticky hands. “I’m usually a very neat person,” she muttered, annoyed at his teasing and embarrassed all over again. “Seriously. Ask anyone.”

He laughed. “And I’ll give you the chance to prove it. Let me see if I can find a bucket of water and a broom.”

“Would you?” At least that would give her a few moments alone to mourn her dignity. “Go to the ticket booth and ask for Eddie. He’ll help.”

“Eddie.” Trent nodded, then grinned at her. “Now, don’t go anywhere.”

As if she could, she thought, looking at the remains of the cotton-candy booth that needed to be cleaned up. Not to mention herself. Could the day get any worse? Could she appear any worse in Trent’s eyes?

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice said. “If it isn’t my ex. And looking her usual best.”

Humiliation skittered like a cockroach down Rebecca’s spine. Determined not to let her former husband see her reaction, though, she lifted her chin and coolly met his gaze.

He was looking like a million and one bucks, in expensive khakis and a starched dress shirt, his initials embroidered on the pocket. His white doctor’s coat was thrown over one arm and his fingers were twined with those of the woman he’d left her for—Constance Blake. In a pastel suit, Constance looked like two million and one bucks, plus all the alimony payments that Rebecca deserved but that her ex-husband had managed to weasel out of.

“Hello, Ray.” He hated when she called him that. His given name was Rayburn and it was his preference. He’d always said Ray was a guy who sprawled on the couch and drank beer.

Well, better a stay-at-home beer-drinker than a cheating swiller of chardonnay who spent all his spare time sharing someone else’s bed.

“Is everything okay, Rebecca?” At the new voice, they all looked over. There was Trent, lugging a bucket of water and an old straw broom.

Oh, no. Rebecca gave an inward moan. The last thing she wanted was for Eisenhower’s daddy to meet Ray. That would only clinch the bad impression she’d made on Trent today. What kind of woman would ever have married such a jerk?

As if he had to confirm that fact, Ray opened his mouth. “Is this your new boyfriend, Becca?” His gaze focused on the bucket and the broom, and he smiled, except on Ray it looked like a sneer. “You dating the janitor now?”

Trent had been taking himself to task all the way to Eddie and back. Thinking with the brain below his belt instead of the one between his ears had led him to teasing and flirting with Rebecca. But she didn’t need that. She’d said she didn’t need or want anything from him.

He certainly didn’t need to wind their accidental entanglement any tighter.

But those thoughts evaporated when he took in the man and woman talking with Rebecca. Trent didn’t like that stiff expression on her face, an expression that turned even stiffer when the other man said something Trent didn’t catch. Something about “the janitor.”

He strode closer, then stepped over the short front wall of their booth. “Excuse me?” he said, meeting the other man’s gaze. “Were you talking to me?”

The guy’s eyes slid toward Rebecca. “I was asking about Becca’s love life.” A faint smile looked nasty on his too-pretty face.

“My love life’s none of your business, Ray,” Rebecca replied. She glanced over at Trent, then released a tiny sigh. “This is my ex-husband, Rayburn Holley, and his friend, Constance Blake. Ray, Constance, this is Trent Crosby.”

“Doctor Rayburn Holley,” the man said. His gaze traveled to the bucket and broom Trent carried. “I’d shake hands but I’m on duty in a few minutes. So you’re making time with my little Becca, huh?”

Aaah. Now if he put love life and janitor together, it was clear that Dr. Ray had been trying to put his ex-wife down. Trent smiled. “We’re making something, all right, Ray.” He turned to the man’s companion. “Hey there, Constance. Did your brother tell you I kicked his ass on the tennis court last week?”

If smiles could kill, Constance’s would have flash-frozen him on the spot. His mother and his ex-wife had been expert at that kind of smile and he was expert at deflecting it.

He grinned back. “What’s the matter, Con? Toothache?”

“There’s not a thing wrong with me, Trent.”

“Nothing that a little warm blood wouldn’t help,” he murmured for Rebecca’s ears only and was gratified to hear her little snort of choked-off laughter. Then he raised his voice. “My mistake. I thought maybe that’s why you had an appointment with Dr. Ray here.”

“I’m a dermatologist, not a dentist.” The doctor shot a glance at his companion. “You know this man, Constance?”

She gave him a nudge with her elbow. “He’s Trent Crosby, Rayburn. Of Crosby Systems?”

Dr. Ray blinked. The he looked from Rebecca to Trent. From Trent to Rebecca. “Well.” He shook his head. “Well, well.”

Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, well, let’s not keep you, Ray. I’m sure your patients need you more than we do.”

“I don’t—” Ray blinked again. “So there is a ‘we,’ Rebecca? You and Trent Crosby?”

The embarrassed flush on Rebecca’s face was all the impetus Trent needed. He pasted on his best man-to-man smile. “What else would get me out of the office or off the golf course on a Saturday morning but a beautiful woman, right, Ray? A beautiful, desirable woman.” His arm looped around Rebecca’s neck to draw her close. He pressed his mouth against hers in a casual kiss.

At the light contact, a fire flared. Trent jerked away from it, staring into Rebecca’s equally startled eyes. It took an effort to break her gaze and meet Dr. Ray’s. “And, uh, thanks, by the way.”

“For what?” The other man didn’t look happy.

Trent hugged Rebecca closer. He didn’t dare kiss her again. “For this woman, of course. Your loss is my gain.”

It sent the supercilious bastard on his way, trailed by the Ice Queen who deserved him. Trent kept his arm around Rebecca until the other couple was out of sight.

That was when her shoulders slumped and she slid away from his embrace. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“What?” He couldn’t help smiling at Rebecca, because Dr. SOB was out of her life and because she looked so damn cute with cotton candy in her hair.

“Pretend for Ray.”

Trent shrugged. “He was trying to do a number on you.”

“I know.” She sighed. “I know, and I still can’t help falling for it. After I caught him cheating, it was as if he blamed me for his own failings.”

“Spouses are pigs.”

She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. Then she sobered. “Sometimes I feel bad about being so pessimistic about love. Then again, sometimes I feel smug.”

“I only feel smart.”

She laughed again. “At least you’re honest. Ray wasn’t.”

“Neither was my ex-wife.”

“I suppose that means we have more in common than I would ever have suspected,” Rebecca replied.

“Yeah. Cheating spouses and a lousy attitude toward love.”

“There’s the pregnancy, too.” Rebecca’s eyes bored straight into his. “And I have to be honest and up-front about it, Trent. I need to make sure you understand that I will never, ever give up my baby. I want you to give me sole custody.”

While he’d known that was what she was after, it made him almost angry to hear her say it. “Am I such a bad guy?”

Her gaze dropped. “You’re not a bad guy, no.” Color stained her cheeks and she pressed her lips together.

It made him think of the kiss. That surprising burst of heat. Maybe he would be better off distancing himself permanently from her. From the baby.

But he couldn’t! Memories slammed him from all sides. Chubby cheeks, little fingers, hero worship. He thought of his nephew and Robbie Logan. He couldn’t lose another child. He couldn’t.

“I have to be honest, too,” he said. “I can’t just walk away, Rebecca.”

She nodded, as if he’d confirmed her worst fears. “We’ll have to come up with another plan, then.”

Yes, another plan. He thought they could, because, despite their initial misfires, they got along well enough. Very well, as a matter of fact. They could laugh together, enjoy each other’s company, enjoy a kiss. Hell, that was more than his own parents had found in their marriage.

“Our baby should have a mother and a father in its life,” he said. “Full-time.”

Rebecca shrugged. “That’s ideal, but not a necessity.”

Trent thought of his parents’ marriage again. They’d lived separate lives, for all intents and purposes, but in the same house. They’d had the children between them, along with a boatload of animosity, but what if the animosity hadn’t been there? What if they could have gotten along, two separate beings who shared living space and their progeny? That could have worked.

It could work.

“Maybe we should get married,” he said aloud, trying out the sound of it. “What do you think?”

Four

D ressed in his disguise of tattered jeans, plaid flannel shirt over a sweatshirt and Seattle Mariners baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, Everett Baker stood concealed on the other side of the flimsy, plywood back wall of the cotton-candy booth, listening to the couple inside. He knew Rebecca Holley by sight from his job as an accountant at the Children’s Center. Trent Crosby he’d never met. At least not since they were children. Perhaps he should feel bad for eavesdropping on them, but eavesdropping was the least of his crimes.

The two in the booth would have other reasons to despise him.